


just like moons and like suns and like rising tides

by fruitwhirl



Category: Girl Meets World
Genre: Angst, F/M, High School, Secret Relationship, a lot more cursing than i normally use but oh well, i don't remember the last time i used that tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 15:13:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5502446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fruitwhirl/pseuds/fruitwhirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maya's not so good at hiding her feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	just like moons and like suns and like rising tides

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from maya angelou's poem, "still i rise".  
> prompt: "Can you please write a lucaya fic where maya is cheering for lucas at one of his games and runs to the field bc he gets injured but he ends up being fine and they kiss something like that idk"

It’s fucking _freezing._

Wrapped up in at least three layers of clothes—a henley, sweatshirt, and crocheted scarf courtesy of Lucas’ mother—Maya feels her teeth chattering. She’s pretty sure that her fingers have turned blue underneath the wool gloves. For a brief moment, she considers taking them off to see, but then decides against it when a body just barely avoids slamming into her.

There’s some getting used to this (or not, she hopes). A camera hangs from a strap around her neck, which isn’t an odd feeling for her, but the added weight of a telescope lens lays heavy against her chest. It’s annoying, really, having to constantly adjust her settings because of the fucking stadium lights. Turf has snuck its way into her shoes, and so every ten minutes or so she wiggles her flats off to discard the annoying bits of plastic.

Maya debates whether or not she should go home, or at least go sit in the stands instead—sitting, if even just on the cold metal bleachers with the rest of the frostbitten teens—sounds _so_ nice after standing for the better part of an hour, but Riley had _begged_ her to cover for her after her mother went into labor a few minutes before the game started and her father had gone to a workshop in the next city over, there wasn’t much the blonde could do. It’s not like she could say no, because the only other person covering the field with her is a sophomore who can’t change his f-stop.

 The pair had decided to join yearbook staff their freshman year; Riley had almost dragged her into putting it on her schedule with her, fearing that if they weren’t in at least one class together they would drift apart (read: they didn't even come close to drifting apart, despite only having that course in common that year). Maya was a little uneasy at first—journalism requires _a lot_ of talking with people (teenagers), she isn’t always up for dealing with idiots whose responses don’t seem to exceed three or four words.

But she quickly found a place in design. It was a way for her to express her art on a different canvas, and as seniors, Riley and her were named Editor and Assistant Editor in Chief, respectively, and it was an efficient dynamic, allowing the brunette to exercise her leadership skills while Maya nestles into the corner of the journalism room, her mother’s blanket around her shoulders as she works on different modules and page designs.

Photography has grown on her as well, but she’s always been more of a still frame, creative shot sort of gal than sports. Up until now, Maya had sworn that she’d go her entire high school career without shooting a single football game. But Riley needed her, and well, who is she to give up when her best friend needs her (and their advisor would give them _shit_ if all the pictures from the night are crap).

Then someone else bumps into her, and she remembers that what she’s supposed to be doing. Sighing, she scampers down to the fortieth where the players waiting for the next play. But just as she’s got herself into her ideal-sports-positioned—knees slightly bent, manual focus—the ball is in the running back’s hands and the boys are moving and so is the entire sideline—the trainers, the “professional” news photographers, coaches, water-boys, the second and third string, everyone and their goddamn father.

Maya shouts a few curses at a big burly guy that almost knocked her over, but he doesn’t pay her any mind as he runs after his teammates. After muttering a few more not so nice words under her breath, she follows them and searching for the quarterback in the mass of teenage boys through her view-finder.

Number seventeen, Lucas earned his spot on the varsity team at the start of his junior year.  While he’d never planned on playing high school football, it was his only bartering chip when his father threatened to move them back to Texas (“Dad said that I was ‘losing touch with my roots’ or something like that”). And it didn’t hurt that the boy had grown considerably since middle school—he’d always been tall, to her at least, but now, he towers over her at a little over six feet. Finding heels, which she’s taken to wearing every day, that are around five inches that don’t _murder_ her feet is getting to be near impossible. Maya’s at the point where she wants to give up on trying to fight their height difference (not that it made that much of an impact).

She wishes that she had worn her normal stilettoed boots instead of the knock-off Toms that are currently gathering turf, if only for the extra height the stilts would give her when getting a shot, but the texture of the field would have caused her to trip more than she already is.

Lost in her grumblings over her footwear, Maya almost doesn’t notice the roar of the crowd around her. She snaps back into reality, brings her camera to her face, and is able to zone in on Lucas again, is able to capture what is probably going to be the game winning throw to the running back who’s right on the edge of the end-zone, and is able to capture the boy who’s got sweat dripping down his temples and a tight smile on his face just as a player in green and gold from the other team slams into him. She knows that it’s just a part of her imagination, but she swears she hears the deafening crack of his body hitting the ground.

Her blood runs cold as the stands’ cheers (they did get a touchdown after all) morph into shocked gasps and _oh god no_ at the sudden realization that their star player is down, and isn’t coming up. Maya barely sees the red flag the referee throws on the fake grass. There’s just a few seconds of delay before her mind catches up with her body and she recognizes that she’s running towards him, towards the boy that isn’t moving. The camera is a minor nuisance, doesn’t even inhibit her from sprinting full force along with trainers and coaches and the rest of the goddamn team—now, the referee who tries to stop her slows her down a little, and so does the huge group of people surrounding Lucas, but she’s able to wiggle through the crowd and get close enough that she can see his face.

Someone had taken off his helmet, so she’s able to see the pain lacing his grimace and the way his eyes crinkle and his eyebrows furrow and _oh god_ whoever the hell did this to him is going to be in a world of hurt once she’s done with them. Then he says something that she can’t hear (she’s still a good couple of yards away), and then people are looking at her, as if noticing her for the first time. One of the trainers gestures her to come forth, and all she wants to do is scowl and call him a huckleberry but when she kneels down beside him, all she _can_ do is hold his hand.

She _hates_ feeling like a sap, but something catches in her throat after she tells him to fuck himself, when Lucas looks up at her and _tries_ to smile, that asshole. She’s well aware that everyone _thinks_ that they’re an actual thing, when they aren’t, when all they do is make out sometimes in his kitchen or against the lockers or in the art room, but she leans down and kisses the corner of his mouth anyway, lingering for a few more seconds than necessary. Her camera knocks his chest a little, but they both sigh against each other’s lips, staying like that until someone (one of the assistant coaches, she thinks), tells someone to get “Friar’s girlfriend outta here”.

And then Maya remembers what happened when he lets out a little gasp of pain when he presses into the grass, and honestly, she’s a little pissed off because it’s _his_ fault that he’s in this situation, and _goddammit_. She pushes away from him, off the ground and slowly walks to the other side of the field, to pat the arm of the sophomore boy who’s snapping pictures even though she’s one hundred percent sure it’s not focused. “I’m out, stay till the end of the game. I’m not sticking around any longer.”

The black-haired boy—Evan or Jeffrey or Nick, she thinks—just frowns but nods anyway, and it might be because he’s a little afraid of her, but she just pushes past him and heads for home. Her phone buzzes in her pocked, probably Zay asking what had happened, if Lucas is okay, if _she’s_ okay (he’s probably the only one truly aware of her feelings, whatever the hell they are), but she just ignores him because well… she isn’t sure that she knows the answer to either of those questions.

.

In history class the following Monday, the desk behind her is empty. Her elbow still finds its place on its smooth surface, though, and people are constantly looking at her (including Riley and Farkle and Zay). She doesn’t know what to say, because she hasn’t talked to him after rushing onto the field, ignoring his texts until they just stopped coming. Even though she’s almost called him more times than she really wants to think about.

Mr. Matthews (who’s still their teacher after all these years) tells her after class that it’s gonna be okay, and Maya just smiles a forced little smile and nods until she can make the excuse that she needs to go before the end of next period—she’ll get truancy if she’s late to anymore classes. He furrows his eyebrows, but lets her leave without saying much else.

She overhears a couple of the jocks who let her through Friday night talking about it in the hallway.

“Yeah, Friar threw his shoulder,” says one of the burlier guys.

“That’s shit. Is he gonna be back for playoffs?” Yes, the team did win even after the quarterback was sidelined.

The first guy shrugs. “God I hope so, Randy’s not gonna hold up very long.” Maya sighs, hopes that the dude’s gonna follow up with an optimistic statement. “But Coach said that he’d be at home for at least the rest of the week, and that he’s in a fuck ton of pain.”

Her stomach churns as she turns a corner and so do the guys, but she goes left and they go right, and so she can’t listen to their conversation anymore.

.

Maya skips the rest of the day—she’s gonna be truant eventually, so why not go ahead and get it over with. A little voice in her head tells her to _at least_ let Riley know what the hell is up, and while the blonde doesn’t know all that much about her plan, well….

**peaches:** _i’m not gonna be in forensics, let carrollton know._

**honey:** _Sweetheart, this isn’t a good idea._

**peaches:** _i know._

**honey:** _Okay_.

On her way out, some junior asks if she and Ranger Rick (what she hears in her head) are dating yet, and maybe the glare she gives the girl is a little mean, but well, she’s had a bad day and she’s making a decision that maybe isn’t the best, not wholly denying it. But who is Maya Hart without bad decisions?

(she doesn’t want to know.)

.

Her scarf, bright and cheerful like the happy happy sun above, is wrapped loosely around her neck as she climbs. The cold metal of the fire-escape feels like ice against her hands, but then again, so does the paper bag pressed to the side of her leg.

It honestly would have been a much better idea to just take the elevator or the stairs up to his apartment, but the first set of rickety rungs put a sort of hope into her head, like making it up three more flights would be just as easy (hint: it isn’t).

After heaving herself up the last vertical stretch, and nearly losing her precious cargo, she goes to open the window. Except, it’s already open.

Which is strange because 1) Lucas Friar is paranoid as hell and 2) It’s fucking freezing outside, threatening sleet (which also begs the question again: why is she _going up the fire escape instead of just to the front door?_ ). But then, as she hesitates, she hears a quiet “It’s open” and so slowly, she puts one foot over, and then the rest of her follows soon after.

He’s on his bed, on top of a dark blue and green patchwork comforter (courtesy of his mother), back against his headboard and a book with a brown and yellow cover in his hands. He barely glances up at her in acknowledgement as she hovers by her entry.

And well, the image she’d conjured up in her head is a lot worse than the Actual Lucas Friar. While yes, he’s got the fading of a bruise on the right of his cheek and his arm is in a weird ass black sling, there isn’t much else wrong, at least on the outside. Really, he seems fine—he even is doing his schoolwork, which next to him. An empty bowl sits on his bedside table, alongside a half-filled cup.

She breathes a sigh of relief.

“It’s not like I was dead, you know.” Her attention snaps back to him, and Lucas is looking at her, his eyes… angry? Irritated? She doesn’t know what to say, so he fills in. “You waited, what, four days to come and visit me?”

Her chest tightens, sucks the airs out of her cheeks, and she asks the only thing she can think of: “What are you reading?”

He snorts, but humors her, pats the place beside him (she moves a little faster than she’d like to admit). “The _Book Thief_.”

Leaning over, she reads a few of the lines in her head, but it’s almost impossible to process the words unless _—“After perhaps thirty meters, just as a soldier turned around, the girl was felled. Hands were clamped upon her from behind and the boy next door brought her down. He forced her knees to the road and suffered the penalty. He collected her punches as if they were presents. Her bony hands and elbows were accepted with nothing but a few short moans. He accumulated the loud, clumsy specks of saliva and tears as if they were lovely to his face, and more important, he was able to hold her down.”_

Used to her need to speak the words, Lucas doesn’t say anything until she finishes, and even then, he waits at least a minute before asking her why she hasn’t talked to him since Friday. A few moments pass, and then she gulps, then answers. “I don’t know.”

“Yeah, you do.” Lucas’ face is something that she doesn’t see very often, because he’s pushing (he’s not normally a pusher). “Maya, you’re smart. Why can’t you just tell me—”

She cuts him off. “Because it’s not that simple!” _Deep breath_. “It’s just, you remember when you rode that bull, back in eighth grade?” He nods, eyebrows furrowed. “I was so scared, you know? I know it was only four seconds, but it felt like an eternity, until you got up and I realized how _easy_ it would have been for that bull to have kicked you or stomped on your head, and goddammit, Sundance, it would have been so easy for you to not have gotten up.” _1 2 3 4 5_. “And that’s what I felt at the game, except you didn’t get straight up and nearly kiss Riley and go on to collect your prize.” _5 4 3 2 1_. “Lucas, you just laid there and there was nothing I could do, I had no idea if you would get up or if that asshole had slammed hard enough into you that you’d, that you’d—”

Stopping then, she just looks down at her hands, fingers now wound into the material of his bedding. Then she feels his soft touch on her wrist, the light press of his lips against hers.

When he pulls away, she lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding and his eyes are boring into hers, and _goddammit_.

He says, “I’m never gonna leave you” and she believes him.

**Author's Note:**

> this ended up a lot longer than i intended, wow.  
> also, i left this very vague for a reason??? idk i feel like that's all my stories.  
> did you notice my mini rant at the beginning??? because i sure did.  
> feel free to send me lucaya prompts at dmigod on tumblr


End file.
